


As I Reckon With the Effects of Your Life on Mine

by FlyDizzeeD



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AIDS crisis, Angst, Backstory, But they weren't always that happy, Canonical Character Death, Happy Ending, M/M, Old Married Couple, Reminiscing, They're very happy now, sad stuff, the 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 01:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyDizzeeD/pseuds/FlyDizzeeD
Summary: An admittedly poetic retelling of the life and times of Alexander Hamilton.





	As I Reckon With the Effects of Your Life on Mine

_1983 was a year of love, drugs, and death. And it was, simultaneously, Alexander's first year in New York City. He had no part in the love, but every part in the drugs. No part in the death, but so close to contracting the cause. He found himself in the midst of a revolution, a desperate attempt by the people of a nation to be heard, seen, helped. Admittedly, he wasn't quite sure of what he was in ‘83. Who he was. But he saw where he fit and he saw injustice. Through dilated pupils and a drugged, drunk haze he saw what had to be done and was not one to back down from a challenge. So he found himself there in those bars and those clubs. He talked and he yelled, and he wrote what he spoke, and he found it in himself within those taverns within that city to speak for the silent and to call out atrocities. To join the revolution of the dying and fight for the right to be alive._

 

_His few companions were of great comfort to him as he watched the world around him seem so in despair. His immigration to the United States has been an optimistic affair, hoping for a brighter future with more opportunities than the island from which he came. And things certainly were better there, but every place had its struggles. Life in the Bronx was far from an exception. His apartment was cramped, usually full, and rather loud with music blaring and people yelling. There were four of them living there, but at any given time there could be more. None of them were willing to turn people away, having found themselves rejected all too much by the masses of society. Alexander discovered that what he could not discuss with one person, he could typically entertain with another. Hercules could handle his sermons, but Lafayette preferred hearing only of plans of action._

 

_John listened to his more pessimistic musings._

 

_In this way, he was lucky. He could find himself when John guided him there. His thoughts were never brushed away in favor of unrealistic hopes, but were reasoned with instead. And though John worked quite a lot, and Alexander himself was busy very often, they seemed always able to find time for one another. Always talked, no matter how small the issue would seem to an outsider. Alexander supposed he enjoyed how well they fit together. How easily they locked in place and held tight like chain links. They were sturdy and reliable, a bond of iron and silk. He felt his words somehow brighten further when their eyes locked and it seemed as though he could make pen meet paper even better when he knew John was there in the room with him._

* * *

 

“I'd never been challenged so carelessly. You confused me and left me speechless.” Alexander said, voice soft and lacking any heat.

 

“You didn't seem very speechless.”

 

“I have an odd way of showing it.”

* * *

 

_He was truly speechless on the day when he chose to be so, allowing his silence to speak volumes. Many others did the same, all around him. There they laid, in the streets, imitating death and paying homage to those that didn't have the luxury of just pretending. There were easily a hundred of them, maybe more. He hadn't gotten too much of a chance to see before he took part, quietly. Out of the corners of his vision he could see the public attempting to move around them, trying so hard not to look. Not to be a part of it. Everyone had lost someone, but not everyone cared. The same could not be said for those laying on the cold cement on a New York November and being given the opportunity to truly think about why they were there and what had to be done to make it unnecessary in the future. They thought of the riots and rallies of times passed. They thought about what mark they might be making on history, no matter how small._

 

_He could hear voices, as well, and the typical noises of the city. He heard Hercules, who had chosen to speak on behalf of those would could not. His clear, deep voice was crisp in the ears of those who listened, but so far seemed to be radio static to those who would not. As well, he could hear the people breathing around him in contrast to the parts they played. And in his hand he felt the hand of another, of John, holding tight in a way that Alexander figured dead bodies could not. He was thankful for the grounding pressure and squeezed back just as tight. It was as close as he could get to words. He'd have to remember to remind John just how truly important he was later. Maybe he would write something. John was always flattered when Alexander took the time to write things for him, always turned a charming shade of red at the extravagant terms of endearment Alexander favored using for those closest to him. His train of thought was so suddenly derailed when he was hit with a freezing, painful sensation on his right side._

 

_John was tugging his hand, and it became apparent to him then that the other protestors has scattered. He could hear yelling and an obnoxiously loud roaring noise he quickly identified as a fire hose. Scrambling to his feet and nearly falling right back to the ground from the force of the spray, he hurried away from the scene hand-in-hand with John. The two of them made their way back to Hercules, who was  busy calling out directions to the protestors. The cops had apparently gotten sick enough of their protest and had taken matters into their own hands. He could see them all standing in a line, hoses and large dogs at the ready. Hands clutching batons. Fingers eagerly tapping guns. For not the first time, he thought of how truly despised their movement was. They were not supposed to rally. They were supposed to remain hidden as they always had, dying in silence._

 

_But they were through living that life and were demanding more. Demanding to at least be given the means to grasp at survival. He recalled the cold he had suffered upon arriving to the mainland and the way no physician was willing to treat him. He recalled how close he came to death for something as simple as a cold. And Alexander vowed to never get that close again. So things had to change. The cops were looking to them now, but it was only evident in the way in which they angled their bodies. Tinted visors on helmets masked them from their victims and provided a sense of unity to their ranks. Rather than individuals, they closely resembled a wall, or maybe a fence. One with barbed wire dogs lunging on the end of thin leather leashes and begging for a bite. But in comparison to a storm at sea, they seemed very inconsequential to Alexander. He moved to take a step forward, opened his mouth to speak, but was pulled away by two sets of hands. There was a brief struggle before he gave in and turned to face Hercules and John, all fire and passion._

 

_“We aren't done yet.” He insisted._

 

_“Nobody said this was over.”_

* * *

 

His nails were always bit down to the beds, sometimes bloody and worse. The right side of his right hand was usually dirty with smears of graphite or ink from dragging his hand across a paper. Recently he had started occasionally wearing a wrist brace on his right arm as well, to help with the carpal tunnel. It provided enough relief to continue his writing.

 

“You could have been hurt, you know. And you just kept doing it.”

 

“It was the right thing to do.” Alexander insisted.

 

“It was reckless. We could have lost you. I could have lost you.”

 

“But you didn't.”

* * *

 

_John died in ‘85._

 

_It was the usual case, usual symptoms. He lost a lot of weight quite fast. There were nights where they laid in bed and Alexander held onto him, feeling every rib. John was skinny to start with but the change was drastic. The fever and chills were at first contributed to the lack of heat in the apartment. New York winters were harsh and thin walls didn't help. On particularly terrible nights, all four of them would lay together and attempt to warm one another up. It wasn't perfect, but it worked for a time. Until John got worse, and nothing seemed to keep him warm. Even as the seasons changed, his condition didn't improve. He couldn't always get out of bed, couldn't attend rallies. Rarely was he awake long enough to even hold a proper conversation with Alexander._

 

_The rash was the last nail in the coffin._

 

_Yet Alexander's devotion never wavered. He worried for some time about his own health, but never developed the symptoms. For all that the two had been close, they had been careful and they had never been exclusive to one another. He knew John went home with men from the bar. As such, Alexander occasionally entertained a woman he was endeared with. He figured John must have been infected from one of those men. That changed nothing between them as he cared for and comforted John during their last few months together. He saw notably less of Lafayette, who did not handle such things as death very well. Hercules seemed more down-trodden, but was no less present and no less dependable. Alexander himself wrote less, spoke less, but was filled with more spite and determination than ever before._

 

_John survived the majority of summer, but was gone by August. He was sobbing, writhing, and in the most evident of pain as he lay dying on the secondhand mattress in their apartment. Alexander watched, very briefly, holding John's hand. But when John looked up at him, he left. Without a goodbye, without looking him in the eyes, he dropped John's hand and walked out the door. Hercules told him later that John had said his name, had asked for him, had screamed for him. That John knew he was about to die and did not want to go. He spared no details and would not stop talking when Alexander begged him._

 

_“He said he loved you._

 

_He yelled for you to come back._

 

_He kept asking why you left._

 

_He kept asking why he had to leave, too.”_

* * *

 

His laugh was short, but so rare it was worth much more. “And the job. You _know_ that should've been my job!” He said.

 

“You weren't passionate enough. Too flaky.”

 

“I had years of experience.”

 

Alexander nodded, replying, “But that's not all that Washington wanted.”

* * *

 

_Lafayette was deported in ‘86. Really, they were all surprised it had taken that long. He was returned to France and eventually would reach out to Alexander much later. Alexander ignored the attempts and, for all intents and purposes, Lafayette died as well._

 

_Hercules was largely the same. After he had forced Alexander to hear what had happened in John's last moments, the tailor went back to normal. He was shaken by Lafayette's deportation but didn't often show it. Rather, he continued his work as usual and never answered when asked about the surplus of empty bottles littering his room or all the women and men he brought home. He worked with Alexander for some time back out on the streets protesting before Alexander earned a job with a small law firm and the rallies were mostly forgotten. He had important work to do for a very important man. Washington had exceedingly high expectations for even the newest of employees and, though a caring man for those close to him, did not coddle anyone. Alexander supposed distancing himself from Lafayette was doubly cruel considering it was in part his ties to the Frenchman that secured him the job. Washington's exception for coddling had always been Lafayette, who worked many small and personal jobs for Washington prior to his deportation. Alexander was aware that there had been quite a bit of effort from Washington’s firm to fight for Lafayette, but apparently they had not been successful. Nevertheless Alexander and Washington quickly became quite close themselves._

 

_He was unaware he even had a rival. But weeks later, it was made clear to him just how deep that rivalry ran when an associate of Washington's regarded him with such scorn. He knew the man. Aaron Burr. They had brief encounters in the past, in which Burr openly expressed his doubts, but had never been too close. “Your position was supposed to have been mine.” Burr informed him, calmly and in passing on the way to Washington’s office. Alexander learned later that Burr had been there to plead his own case. Washington was hesitant, but hired him a few days later. Burr was never regarded in the same light as Alexander and it seemed quite often to vex him. The two had periodic spats in the hallways of the small office building._

 

_And so it was that they were paired together to work on a case some weeks later. They found in each other two unique sets of strengths, but saw all cons over pros. What Burr gained from seniority Alexander made up for in gumption. Burr refused to return to Alexander's apartment after this first visit, so when extra time was needed they worked at his place instead. It was notably nicer, but nothing extravagant. He was rather particular about where his things were placed, but by the fourth visit he simply ignored when Alexander put a book or glass back in the wrong spot. Alexander felt rather out of place in the tidy apartment and strived to wear his cleanest clothes when he knew he'd have to visit Burr. His couch was a nice easy-to-stain beige color and Alexander did not have the money to fix it should something happen._

* * *

 

“Your approach was haphazard and could've cost us.”

 

“But it didn't.”

 

“It's like arguing with a toddler.”

* * *

 

_By March he was hooked and he knew it. He noticed the way Burr's occasional smile made his chipped tooth show. Watching him write made him tired and relaxed. He had a habit of scribbling out words in a frenzy, but Burr was always calm and paced as he put pen to paper. His writing was elegant and there were times where the looping scrawl did not make sense to Alexander. More than once he had to seek secondary thoughts on what word he was looking at. Arguing with Burr was heated, but never heavy. It reminded him dimly of John calmly challenging his negative thoughts. But that thought was quickly discarded, because Burr was nothing like John. And maybe that was better._

 

_He first kissed Burr in May. He had won a case he was certain he was going to lose, and he was riding high. As soon as he left the courtroom, he was approached by Burr. He's pretty sure Burr was in the middle of a congratulations when he laughed, grabbed him, and kissed his cheek. Where he was from, it wouldn't have meant much. But America was a very different place that had very different thoughts on what was socially acceptable to do to a co-worker in public. Multiple other people leaving the courtroom side-eyed the two as they made their way out of the courthouse. Burr, as well, gave Alexander a rather confused but not entirely put-off look. Eventually he cracked a smile and shook his head. “Congratulations, Hamilton.” He said._

 

_“Thank you, Mr. Burr, sir.”_

 

_“Aaron.”_

 

_He raised his eyebrows before his broad smile from the exhilaration of winning returned to his face. “Alexander.” He said, returning the sentiment._

 

_Aaron glanced away and then down at the floor, asking, “Can I buy you a drink?”_

 

_“That would be nice.”_

 

_Washington was waiting for them outside of the courthouse, having evidently been there for some time judging by his vaguely annoyed expression. “And the verdict?”  He asked of Alexander, voice as level and expectant as always._

 

_“Not guilty, sir.”_

 

_He didn't smile so much as he seemed all over more content. Proud. He clapped a hand to Alexander's shoulder and squeezed it, giving a short and cordial nod. His attention was drawn back towards his car, parked on the curb. “Good. I need to get back to the office. Make sure to stop by and see me sometime tomorrow so we can discuss what happened today.” He looked to Aaron briefly. “Burr.”_

 

_“Sir.”_

 

_“Don't bother coming in tomorrow. Nothing too important going on.”_

 

_His face seemed tense and his smile was strained when he responded, “Very well, sir,” and nothing more as Washington turned and walked away._

 

_Alexander was the one to choose the bar. In his usual desire for self-preservation, he took them to a place where he knew he'd be safe. He immediately recalled the many times he had sat in a corner booth with his friends, talking or planning or singing drunk songs. Quite purposefully he chose to sit at a barstool instead. Aaron sat next to him and they said nothing to one another as they ordered drinks from the bartender. The night went on in that fashion. He listened to the other patrons and watched as two older men played in circles around one another. Even in places like that bar, where such touches and pleasant words among men were looked past, an air of hesitance and dread readily loomed over the crowd. His eyes were drawn back to Aaron every so often and easily captivated by the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he knocked back a drink, or by the way his tongue would flick out to lick away remaining droplets of rum from his lips._

* * *

 

“In no way does that count as a first kiss.”

 

“It was close enough.” Alexander said, shrugging. “For me at least.”

 

“Our real first kiss was better. I remember that night. You were absolutely insufferable up until I realized how to shut you up. Could've gotten yourself killed for talking like that.”

 

“But, again, I didn't. Because I had my most trusted Aaron there to guide me.” Alexander teased, lightly kicking his foot under the table.

* * *

 

_They drank together every Friday night. Aaron usually paid for their drinks, ignoring Alexander's protests. For the most part, however, they did not talk. He spoke with other people in the bar and spoke to the bartender, occasionally. His hand would seemingly move on its own accord closer to Aaron’s. So, most of the time, their hands lay clasped together tightly on the smooth wood of the bar. It was one of the few comforts he allowed himself. He suspected the same was true for Aaron, who he had never seen openly show affection with anyone._

 

_It didn't surprise him, then, when on a typical Friday night he found his hand in Aaron's. His other hand was holding a glass of whiskey. Not his usual drink choice, but they were out of the vodka he so favored. Regardless, he was already on his third glass and feeling invincible as he spoke to the man sitting next to him. They were discussing politics, of course, because what else was Alexander expected to talk about in such a place? The weather was always the same and it was all too obvious that the Red Sox had the World Series in the bag, so even the topic of sports was too pessimistic for the average New Yorker. So they spoke of Reagan instead._

 

_“It’s a blatant attempt to put even more unrestricted power into the hands of the president. And while I support a strong government, I don’t support a corrupt one.” Alexander said, tone heavy with the overconfidence of the very drunk. He was a bit of a lightweight._

 

_“I can't say I agree.” The main, an older fellow, said. “He is the president, after all. We trusted him to lead our military, and in times like these, we should be giving the man a bit more credit. We haven't been nuked yet, have we?”_

 

_“I didn't trust him to do anything.”_

 

_“You voted Mondale?”_

 

_“I didn't vote.”_

 

_The man was just about to respond when a voice from Alexander's other side interrupted him._

 

_“That might be worse, don't you think?” Aaron asked, eyes locked on the ice in his own empty glass. Alexander was taken aback before responding, with a scoff._

 

_“You didn't vote either.”_

 

_“But I'm not criticizing a man I failed to act against.”_

 

_“So you like Reagan? You support the Goldwater-Nichols Act?”_

 

_“I never said that.” Aaron shot back, much calmer than his counterpart._

 

_“You're against it, then? It's only around because of Reagan’s failure to properly command the armed forces in the first place, anyway.” And Alexander was a bit brazen in his remark, with the way he leaned against the bar and gave a cocky smirk Aaron's way. He didn't see the man behind him getting red in the face and had all but forgotten his presence; until he talked, that is._

 

_“He's gonna fix things. He's already talked with Gorbachev.”_

 

_“And yet the wall is still there.”_

 

_Then, from Aaron again; “Your lack of a vote helped to put him in office.”_

 

_“Well, so did yours.”_

 

_“I'm not disagreeing.”_

 

_“But you aren't agreeing either.”_

 

_“Some thoughts are better kept private.”_

 

_Never before had he come so close to tearing out his own hair. He was vaguely aware of the other man still going on, and he could see other patrons of the bar eyeing their group more than a little disdainfully. For all that the place was usually safe, every night was different and sure to bring those less than desirables around every so often. Alexander just didn't expect to be seated next to one. He gathered himself enough to answer the man he was actually still holding hands with. And as he spoke, his grip tightened. “Some thoughts,” he began, “are kept hidden in fear for the public image. I have no fear for mine. I see no reason for you to fear for yours when your self-service sullies it well enough.”_

 

_A rare light flickered in Aaron's eyes. “My image is just fine.”_

 

_“I can't help but agree.” Alexander said, his smirk easily slipping into an amused grin._

 

_“That's not what I meant.”_

 

_“What do you mean, Aaron?”_

 

_He had evidently finally managed to light a fire in a man so typically incombustible. “You'd be best to leave the topic alone.”_

 

_“But, Aaron, how--”_

 

_“Christ's sake, Alexander.”_

 

_The swift interruption was followed with action, and at first Alexander braced himself for a punch to the face. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd been knocked out cold in a bar. But this time his flinch was met with a much more pleasant touch. While not necessarily gentle, Aaron was in no way violent in how he kissed him. And, then, Alexander snapped out of his momentary fear to realize that, yes, really, he was being kissed. His opposition reflex and persistent stubbornness kicked in to make him kiss back with more force, free hand reaching out to hold the back of Aaron's neck. The kiss was a testament to how drunk they were in its degree of sloppiness. He felt the hand holding his squeeze even tighter. His entire body felt warm._

* * *

 

There in the dim glow of the restaurant lighting, it was easy for Alexander to recall the night. It was harder to keep a smile from making its way onto his face, harder to stop the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners and his hands fidgeted. Hardest of all (completely impossible) to fight the way the man across from him made him feel. And while there was no way to be sure short of asking, Alexander was of the solid suspicion that he felt the same way.

 

“That was the first time,” Alexander started, then stopped, wanting to get the wording just right, “in a long time, that I didn't feel lost. I knew where I was, who I was, and had an idea of just where I wanted to be.”

 

“And where is that?”

  
“Right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr at fddwrites.tumblr.com


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